


Peace of Mind

by frxrard



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frxrard/pseuds/frxrard
Summary: After another bust up with his estranged wife, Michael winds up at his old friend Trevor's place for a little getaway and a little peace of mind. But what he really gets is a little taste of the past with miniature tidbits of the present.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These chapters are gonna be in different p.o.v's but don't worry I'll make it obvious who's point of view I'm writing in. I just get tired of writing in one person's narrative all the time. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy :)

Chapter 1

Another beer bottle falls to the floor. A big fuckin' pile of bottles; the sound is quite musical and sounds pretty nice. I would've been quite impressed if I hadn't have been in such a pissed off mood. I could have been in my own home; my own big fuckin' mansion, sitting by my big fuckin' pool feeling sorry for myself. But am I? Hell no: I'm stuck here with my ol' buddy; my best fuckin' friend who is nice enough (to me anyway, sometimes) but has questionable hygiene standards, a dirty trailer and what's worse, I'm getting no sympathy here whatsoever. But, free beer off one of the local convenience stores that we robbed just under 2 hours ago so there's my complaining rights out the fuckin' window.

Trevor slams his ass down on the couch next to me, removes the cap from yet another beer bottle with his crooked teeth and waves it right in my face, "Fancy another one, Mikey?"  
I'm already slurring my words, Trevor's face looks like it's swerving forwards and backwards towards my own and the room is spinning erratically but I take the bottle from him gratefully.  
I take a few, no, a lot of sips. No, not sips, big, great, fat, fucking gulps, alright(?). Trevor is whispering to his little posse, which angers me a little bit but maybe because I'm really emotional and even more drunk at this point.

"Hey, hey hey! If I wanted to be gossiped and bitched about by assholes I'd go back home and stand outside my bedroom while my own wife fucks our gardener, our mechanic and our maid all at the same time," I yell angrily at the air.  
Trevor and Ron just switch glances and raise their eyebrows at each other.  
"Y-your maid? You never told me Amanda was bisexual." Wade kind of, half-giggles nervously.  
"Wade," I cough. "That was a joke."  
"Shut up, Wade, before I let my bisexual tendencies unleash themselves on you," Trevor shouts at him.  
Ron pats Wade on the head, the same way you'd treat a confused pet which I guess is the only you can behave around Wade to be honest.

I stand up, not one of my best ideas, and I lean on the table where Trevor sits on. I clumsily climb on top of the table next to him.  
"So, Mikey, what's your plan now? You gonna go back to your family tonight?" Trevor asks me.  
I reach for my bottle and take another gulp before answering, "I don't know. There's a motel near here, ain't there? I'll sleep there for the night and then, fuck, go back home tomorrow morning or something," I suggest, unconvincingly.  
With my tail between my legs using my best apologetic puppy eyes. Fuck that. Like that's ever gonna happen only one day after a huge fuckin' bust up, and even Trevor knows it.

"Well, M, I don't wanna get in the way of your perfect fairytale marriage," Trevor says while I shoot dagger eyes at him. He puts on a more serious persona. "Fuck the motel, you can crash here for a few days. We'll have fun! Like the good ol' days, only slightly less psychotic and you're just more fatter."  
I roll my eyes, might as well sign the fuckin' divorce papers now then. Amanda knows when I've been hanging around Trevor; she says I'm more angry, more bad tempered, I've got less morals and the alcohol cupboards are empty when I've been in his company for too long. She's gonna fuckin' love me after these couple of days are over. Might start an investment in TPI and get me an addiction to meth just to see what my darling wife thinks. It'll be like she married Trevor instead of me.

Speaking of meth, that's exactly what the unholy trinity are doing now. Trevor, Ron and Wade are cooking up and suddenly I'm the stick in the mud. T taunts me to come and have a try of his goods but is surprisingly content when I decline.  
"Whatever, man. More for us to sell, eh, Ronald?" Trevor nudges Ron abruptly while Wade giggles at both of them.  
I chuckle at them while lighting a cigarette while realising that that was my last bastard one. I stand up again, wobbling slightly and slurring my words.  
"Uh, T, I'm off to go get some more cigarettes. I'm walking."  
Trevor looks up at me, sitting cross-legged on the floor, "You want me to drive you there? I could do with some more of-" Trevor starts speaking before I cut him off.  
"Nah-no thanks T; I don't want you driving after you've been smoking that shit," I say.  
"Cut me off like that again and I'll smoke you just like I smoke this shit. We'll take a walk together; besides, you need the exercise, sugar tits," Trevor threatens, which he only half means. No, I mean, he totally means them. He's 100% serious about everything he says and it's hard to differentiate between what he's just said being a joke or whether you should sleep with one eye open that night.

Anyways, Trevor and I make our way down to the convenience store on foot; him strolling with utter confidence in his stride while I just tripped over a dead rat that one of Sandy Shores' residents must have turned into roadkill only a few hours before.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"For fuck's sake, T!"  
Here we go again, I take a deep breath in and prepare for whatever this fuckin' diabetic dinosaur is about to throw at me.  
"We had to go there, we had to go to the one fuckin' store that we robbed on the same fuckin' day," Michael yells the riots act at me.  
"Whoa, hey, hey, hey, take it easy, tiger. All these stores look exactly the same to me. You can't blame me," I respond.  
"Yes I fucking can, you asshole. How can you get two stores mixed up, I know they're all chain stores but I'm struggling to see how even someone like you can mess that up," Michael continues rambling on at me and all I want is for him to shut up.  
I glance around at potential things I can use to do this: a rock, a broken tire, the skull of a dead dog next to some twat's trailer, my cock?

I sit on a large electricity box that hasn't functioned for years and look at Michael wholesomely for a few seconds.  
"Look man, I'm stoned off my fuckin' nut so excuuuuuse me if I don't come up with any gold star ideas, okay man," I offer. "Besides, you're drunk off your fat ass as well. You probably just can't feel it because your alcoholic body is used to all that shit, eh?"  
I don't even try to move after that all that rolls off my tongue; Michael just stares at me in disgust, "You know what, fuck you," is all he says before slumping his body next to mine.  
"So, what do we do now?" He asks me, and I love it. I feel like I'm the leader here. I'm his master and he's my slave. Now get on your knees and suck my dick before I turn you into roadkill.  
I sniff, "Dunno, but since we can't rob that store twice in one day, there's this cocksucker who deserves whatever shit I give to him. Aaand, he's got plenty of cigarettes and booze at our disposal, if you're not too much of a pussy, that is," I turn my head towards Michael who looks reluctant but if it gets him what he wants, he'll be more than happy to follow my lead.

Besides, we've done a lot worse. Back in nineteen eighty-something; robbing banks, taking scores and murdering innocent motherfuckers was something of a game back in our prime. Our glory days. Whereas holding one of the Lost MC at gunpoint while robbing him of some cheap goods seems like child's play in comparison.  
So off we went to the Lost's hideout and I'm all ready to split up, yeah? Surely it'd be better to cover more ground and get more gear that way? Oh, fuck no. Michael is adamant that we stick together just in case things get messy. Messy? Of course it's gonna get fuckin' messy! Who the fuck does he think he's with? We go into one of the trailers together, after Michael is 110% certain that no leather-clad cunts are holding up in there.  
I grab two bottles of liquor and a packet of cigarettes; Michael does the same and we're just about to leave when we both hear a heavy set of leather boots outside the trailer door. None of us say anything, but Michael silently edges closer to me while I tiptoe closer to the biker's bedroom. The closet door is open, extremely empty with next to no clothes, shoes or belongings in there so I take a dive in there and beckon Michael to follow me.  
Two bikers step into the quiet trailer while Michael and I try our damnedest not to breathe too loudly. It's only a small closet so me and Mikey are enclosed in such a tight space that we could here each other breathing, as quiet as we are. I can even feel Michael's heartbeat, which is beating so fast either probably due to fear of being caught or just overall general high-blood-pressure-that's-normal-for-a-fat-forty-something-year-old. But I'm obviously not gonna say that out loud at this moment in time, am I? Kudos to him for not making any closet jokes though, I suppose I owe him that much. He's a father, I guess, so it's kind of his job to be that much of an embarrassment. And who am I to go against human nature, eh?

"I could have sworn I saw him come in here," One of the bikers snarl.  
"No, no, no. Not just him, there was somebody else."  
"I didn't see - It wasn't his boyfriend, was it?" The first one asks.

I can feel Michael's eyes and his stare burn into the side of my head but I refuse to look at him for fear of - you know what, fuck it.

I kick open the closet door and wave a pistol at the two, now confused bikers, "C'mon, lover boy, I think our work here is done," I yell as Michael climbs out of the closet more slowly and awkwardly than I just did.  
"What the fuck is he doing here?" Biker number one asks the other, not even looking at us.  
"Ahaha! Good question! What the fuck are we doing?" I turn to Michael, wishing that he'd say something instead of just fucking standing there but he eventually pulls through.  
"You know a better question, T? I think, is why these motherfuckers are still breathing," Michael shouts while pulling the trigger of his gun; two bullets going through each of the bikers' heads.  
YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS.  
We're back in the game, man. Trevor Philips and Michael Townley are back in the fuckin' game. I love this guy; hell, I could fuck this guy sometimes, I love him so much.  
I get my bearings back together as I remember just where we are. There'll be time for celebrating later. Me and Michael jump out of that damn trailer; these fuckin' grease monkeys stare at us, gobsmacked. A few of them shouting my name in both fear and disgust.  
"Do you want my autograph then, motherfucker?" I yell as one of my bullets flies right through the forehead of some random biker; two of them flee not wanting to be my next victim. So some of them have got more than one brain cell between them. Good to know.

I yell for Michael to run away from the Lost's hideout and I do the same but whilst passing one of the trailers, my nose picks up a familiar scent. Now, I cook meth, that's my whole area, my business. Guns and crystal methamphetamine: that's what fucking Trevor Philip's Industries is all about and the Lose M-Fucking-C are cooking their own gear to avoid buying my supplies? Not on my watch, bro.

"I hope you junkie's haven't got anything flammable in there," I taunt them as my gunfire rips into the drug den and BANG!!

"Your fucking crystal gets supplied by TPI and TPI only, you got that?" I ask. Well, not really ask, more a force. I meet up with Michael at the entrance of their little burnt out hideout and he's pissing himself laughing at my violent and explosive outbursts. 'Spose he's gotta get his entertainment somewhere. I'm his movie now.  
We're back, baby. We. Are. Back.

Michael and I stroll back back to the trailer park, chain-smoking and drinking our stolen bottles of well-earned and well-deserved liquor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back, back again  
> frxrard's back, tell a friend.  
> I loved writing this chapter and Trevor's pov is so much fun to get behind :)  
> Hope y'all enjoy reading this shit as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i can't write summaries that well and i don't write actual chapters that much better either.
> 
> anyways hope y'all enjoy this one, i guess.

Chapter 3

What's the point in buying an expensive phone from a big ass company if you're not gonna fucking answer any of your calls.  
I ring Amanda's number one last time and slam my phone down when I'm greeted with her answerphone message. An angry yelp escapes from my mouth and I can see Ron shiver nervously from across the room.  
"Stupid question, maybe, but shouldn't you just leave her a message?" Ron asks, his voice wobbling a bit.  
"Waste of breath; I don't like sending voicemail messages to people who aren't even gonna listen to them," I offer.  
Trevor huffs and puffs at me, "Bit selfish not using your cute little iFruit phone to its full potential, ain't it?"  
"I didn't ask you, you insufferable prick."  
"The 10-year-old Asian kid who was malnourished and overworked while making your overpriced shitty phone weeps at night because materialistic fuckers like you keep capitalistic businesses alive," Trevor snarls back.  
What a fucking hypocrite; I know for a fact that Trevor owns exactly the same phone. I caught him sending abusive voice messages to Wade this morning. Poor kid, Wade was actually too stupid to realise they were only messages and thought Trevor was talking to him via phone call. I'll have to help him get his own back on T one of these day; poor boy is too much of a pussy and an idiot to do it on his own.

_____________________________________________

I miss Los Santos but I can't bring myself to drive myself back to House of De Santa just yet for the sake of my pride. I have to leave Trevor's trailer of luxury for a few hours at least otherwise I'll totally lose it, kill the bastard feed his bloodied corpse to the dog I accidentally tripped over this morning. There was absolutely no need for that language its owner came out with. Trevor guided me away as if he was afraid I was gonna snap the guy's neck. Judging me by his own standards. Or like the male, meth-addicted version of my enstranged wife.  
My phone lights up with another from dearly beloved Trevor asking me where I am; I ignore it. I'm sat opposite Franklin in an empty, sad-looking diner in Sandy Shores. I say empty, there's one guy who looks like he's on meth, probably supplied by Trevor Philips Industries or what's left of The Lost's supplies if T hasn't stole/destroyed it all first. There's a girl behind where Franklin is sat; some gothic looking chick with a fashion sense I'm probably too old to understand and a pair of expensive looking headphones blasting some shit I've heard Trevor listen to frequently.

"What are you gonna do then, Mike?" Franklin asks. "I mean, look man, you can't just stay out here in the desert forever."  
He's right but my pride won't let me go back just yet, "Why not, F? Trevor's been living out here alone with his even weirder friends for 10 years. Why can't I do that? Who says I can't just drop everything, pick up a meth habit and live in a dirty ol' trailer just like I was probably supposed to," I pick up this fake southern, hill-billy accent which gets a confused but amused look from Franklin.  
"Alright dog. Look man, it's your life, I get that but what about Amanda?" Franklin tries to reason with me.  
I don't say anything, even when he says her name. It doesn't do anything for me anymore, which kind of scares me.  
"OK. So you and your wife are going through some shit," Yeah, 'some shit' kid. "What about your kids? They don't this right now, do they?" Franklin sounds desperate, and then I realise that Franklin grew up without a father figure, which is probably why he has such an emotional attachment to me sometimes. It explains why he's so defensive about Jimmy and Tracey now. Probably explains the little hint of anger I can see in his eyes right now. I feel terrible.

"You know what, Frank, you're right. I'm punishing my kids when they don't deserve it," I apologise.

None of them have called or text or emailed me yet. Not a single fucking thing. I'm not angry at the kids; they're probably just confused at the whole thing. I was never a perfect father to be quite honest; I was absent through a lot of Tracey & Jimmy's upbringing so I guess they're used to me being away now. No, I don't blame those two at all, but Amanda. Fuck her. Fucking fucking fucking fuck her.

Franklin and I are silent for a minute or two before Trevor rings me, probably a bit pissed off that I'd ignored his last text. I answer him just to see what he's done now.  
"T! How's things? Need me to bail you out? Ran out of dead Lost gang members to kill and dismember? What's up?" I ask, only half jokingly down the phone.  
Trevor grumbles, "Now's not the time for your fucking sarcasm, Mikey. I need your fat ass to meet me in the lab as soon as you can make it here. I got a little surprise for ya. Adios amigo."  
He hangs up; Franklin hears every word as T's voice is like a fucking foghorn. I take Frank with me as my escort and my alibi just in case I need him and we drive up to Trevor's meth 'laboratory'.

_____________________________________________

 

"T!" I yell as me and Franklin kick open the already broken door to see just what the fuck my old buddy has done now.  
Franklin has an expression of regret and disgust on his face, "What the fuck, man. I forgot what a dump this place actually is. Would it kill you to get a maid to clean up in here. I know you can afford it with all yo' drug money y'all got in here."  
"Ehh, Mike, would you give your fucking student a lesson in how to respect your fuckin' elders?" Trevor yells down my earhole.  
I roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders at Franklin who still looks shocked and angry.  
"Anyways, T, we're here now. Whatever you called us here for, it must be important," I try and keep myself cool. I'm quietly preparing myself for the most deranged bullshit that this motherfucker has pulled, because this is Trevor Philips we're talking about.

"Well, Mikey, remember those bikers that we had," he coughs loudly and obnoxiously, "a little friendly conversation with a few days ago?"  
I cock my head back, "Vaguely, yeah."  
"Well, one of those pussies sent one of their girlfriends to avoid getting their hands dirty and I sort of-" I cut Trevor off out of fear for what he's just done and believe me, I can take a massive fucking guess.

I angrily push past him, knocking Trevor so his face smashes into where a door should be had he not fixed this dump up properly and storm into the next room. There she is, a young-ish girl, probably about in her early twenties but has aged badly due to a heavy meth addiction. Covered from head to toe in leather; a Lost MC speciality. With her hands tied behind her back and her mouth covered with cheap but excessive masking tape, it's hard not to feel sorry for the seemingly helpless lass. I'm not about to go blabbing or sympathising out loud, I'm not that stupid.  
I lean on a more cleaner part of Trevor's kitchen counters, "Jesus fucking Christ, T," I sigh, exasperatedly.  
"You don't sound too surprised, Michael. I'm a bit disappointed," Trevor pouts at me.  
"Nothing you do surprises me anymore, T," I laugh and smirk a bit. "Hey, at least this one's not old enough to be your ma."

Franklin looks at the both of us, bewildered and confused. We're having a reasonably normal conversation by our standards even though one of our party has just kidnapped a younger lady from a rival violent drug-producing gang. I just shrug my shoulders at him because Hell, things have gotten a lot more criminal than this before things will definitely get a lot more weirder from this day onwards.


	4. Chapter 4. Part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone, i'm not dead by the way. just my mental health ( and that nightclub dlc ;)) ) getting in the way yet AGAIN. but no worries i am back with a new chapter. a bit of a short one as i wanna break chapter 4 into 2 parts but i hope y'all understand, enjoy.

Chapter 4. Part 1.

Michael's drunken pathetic ass is passed out on my couch; I can't help but sneak his ridiculously overpriced iFruit phone from out his equally overpriced suit jacket and scroll through his messages. I can't believe I have stooped low enough to have rekindled my friendship with this total embarrassment of a man. But, what can I say, I've always been charitable to the needy; I've been feeding Wade's fucking methamphetamine addiction for years, haven't I, as if anyone needed some fucking proof.  
Anyways, as I was saying, Michael's texts: fucking pathetic. I don't mean that the cunt is begging Mandy back, I mean, he's not even trying. No heartfelt messages that I can get off on, not even a single emoji. Disgusting. A mess of a husband, she should have went with me back in North Yankton; I mean I wouldn't know how to put up with her expensive tastes or even how to respect her but fuck, at least I'd send her an emoticon of a little monkey with its hands over its fucking eyes and ears every once in a while. Whilst I'm still scrolling through Michael's phone in one hand and with a beer bottle in the other, Wade and Ron walk rather timidly into my trailer. They both look nervously at Michael, curled up on the sofa, semi-conscious.  
"He ain't dead, is he?" Ron asks, nervously.  
"Not yet," I laugh. "No, Ron, he's just passed out. Exhausted! I fucked the life out of him an hour ago and he fell asleep straight afterwards."  
Ron puts his head in his hands while Wade just looks at me, gobsmacked.  
"I'm joking, Wade," I say. "I sucked the life out of him."  
"T! I don't think that's any better," Wade sounds unsure and worried."  
"That's probably what he's thinkin' now," I gesture to the flat lump taking up residence on MY couch.  
Suddenly, the phone in my hand starts ringing and I quickly dash outside as not  
to wake Sleeping Beauty up.  
"Amanda? Isn't that," Wade frantically points towards Michael. "His wi-"  
"Shut up, Wade."  
I have to think fast. Common sense says that if I pick up now, Amanda will know exactly who Michael's with which could spell trouble for both of them, their so-called marriage and all. But my fascination of what might happen and what this bitch might say and slash or do aroused me so before I could change my mind, I answer the phone call.  
"Hello, Trevor Philips Industries speaking. You have been put through to the cell phone of TPI's newest recruit. How may I help you?" I anticipate an answer and oh boy, did she deliver.  
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Amanda sighs.  
"Amanda De Santa! I thought I recognised the sound of your voice? Well, how can I be of assistance? Drugs? Guns? Cosmetic surgery? Anything for you, sweetheart!" Ron's trying his hardest not to laugh while Wade is looking onwards with a blank expression on his face.  
"Where is my husband, Trevor?" Amanda yells, "Is he alive?"  
"What kind of fucking monster do you take me for, eh?" I shout back down the line. "Yeah, he's fine by the way. Passed out on my sofa, drunk off his ass. But fine," I say, a little bit calmer.  
Amanda just sighs again and hangs up the phone. I carefully slide the phone underneath Michael's sleeping body; he doesn't need to know what just happened. I mean, he will eventually but now. Ron, Wade and I drive back to the meth lab. Both for business, and the victim I have hidden up back there.


	5. Chapter 4. Part 2.

Chapter 4. Part 2.

Franklin and I storm up to the meth lab where I assume Trevor is, because let's face it, if he wasn't at his trailer he was probably here with Chef cooking up a batch and I was right. I run upstairs and kick open the already broken door.  
"Trevor?! Trevor, what the fuck have you done?"  
Trevor is strangely calm and subdued; I actually admire that about him, the whole world could be seconds away from imploding and he could be laughing away, joking as if nothing at all was happening.  
"Ah, Mikey!" He exclaims, "I see you've brought an audience for your next outburst," He gestures to Franklin.  
"I don't suppose you could explain why," I grab my phone from my suit jacket pocket, "I'm getting messages from my fucking wife giving me hell about the deranged meth-head with psychotic anger issues that I'm bunked up with?!"  
Chef keeps his eyes on Trevor while slowly backing away and Franklin does the same with me, but into another room.  
"Well, you certainly weren't gonna make the first move, you ignorant fuck. She rang you while you were flat out drunk so I-"  
"You had no right to do that, T." I say, sounding desperate and quite frankly, embarrassing.  
"Look, all she knows is that you're alive - which is, in fact, all she wanted to know - and who you're with. She doesn't know where you are, how could she?" Trevor does his best to calm me down which embarrasses me further as he now looks like the mature one in all this. Well, fuck him. I mean, not really, but I'm still angry and feel like I have a point to prove so fuck him.

Nobody noticed where Franklin had gone until Trevor remembers about the female biker girl he has stashed up here. I go to find him and he's sat beside her on an old mattress; I feel like I've just intruded on a special moment but Trevor is a lot less sympathetic. Franklin had untied her hands and removed the masking tape from her face which really riled Trevor as he commands Franklin to put them back on.  
"Whoa, dog, I get this beef you got going on with that biker gang but the girl looks terrified, man," Franklin says.  
"Then that means I'm doing it right then, aren't I? Now, c'mon Franklin, I won't ask you again," Trevor yells.  
Franklin apologises to the poor girl, ties her wrists together with the rope and puts some fresh masking tape over her mouth, but not as tight as what Trevor would have done.  
I think F has had enough of Trevor's shit for one day. He walks away from the lass, turns to face me, drops me a "see ya later, dog" and exits the lab as fast as he can without looking as scared as he probably feels. Not scared of Trevor, I might add, but scared for this girl who T's taken captive. Kidnapping isn't really F's area, anyway. His area of criminal expertise is more repossessing overpriced cars to conmen. It's not really my area either; when I take scores, it's for a reason: to make money. Kidnapping isn't really a money-making scheme; Trevor is literally doing this out of spite and slash or revenge.  
________________________________________________

Trevor and I are back at the trailer. Franklin drove back to Vinewood Hills to escape from this maniac sat next to me. Chef fucked off back to his place after successfully shipping weapons and methamphetamine to some of the Lost. Ron's probably looking up some whack-ass conspiracy as to whether Hitler's death was a hoax or some shit and Wade is probably high off his ass somewhere; safe but unbelievably high. Anyways, Trevor and I are sat on the table just outside the trailer. It's late evening; the sun has gone in and said that's it for today. Not to sound like a cheesy old black and white film but the sky is breathtakingly beautiful. The stars are out and shining brightly; very much unlike Los Santos. LS has way too much air pollution to see anything but clouds, especially at night. But Sandy Shores is different; almost like a whole different planet or something. I'm telling Trevor all this now and he has this strange, kind-looking gleam in his eyes.

"This is why you should move out here in the desert, Mikey. It's real, unlike anything you'll ever get in Los Santos. Honestly, you and that god forsaken city, it just doesn't seem to go together."

I agree with everything he's saying. I moved to LS as an escape; it's a place where people are constantly moving there for a change of scene. A new life. Or to get famous. That's what Davey thought when he had me and my family relocated after the whole Ludendorff bank robbery thing. We didn't really have a choice in the matter but looking back it was either that, death or incarceration in Boilingbroke Penitentiary.

"I need to go back home at some point," I sigh. "But-"

"But," Trevor repeats.

"I don't know, man," I take a cigarette from a pack we stole from the Lost a few days ago and Trevor offers me a lighter. I spark it up.

"Look, I know you probably don't wanna stay here forever. But, how long have I known you, now? 19 years, is it, eh?" Trevor asks.

"Yep, 19 long years. We're getting old, T."

Trevor gives me a harsh look but then gives my shoulder a gentle nudge in a way that I know he's just joking. He quickly goes back inside and fetches two more beer bottles, opens the both of them with his crooked teeth and passes one of them to me.

He takes a long gulp out of his bottle and stares into the sunset for about 2 straight minutes absolutely silent.

"Y'know, Mikey, you're welcome here anytime. You know that?" Trevor asks, sincerely.

I swallow my beer thoughtfully for a few seconds, "T, I did miss you those, what? 10 years, was it? If things had been different, I wouldn't have had to have done that."

I thought he'd get angry that my apology is one that seemed like I'm sympathising with myself. I guess I am, a little bit, but I guess it doesn't matter. Trevor doesn't seem the least bit mad.

"No, no, M, I get you. You had a family to protect and your kids were young and vulnerable. They needed their father alive, not incarcerated or feeding worms. Besides, if I had anyone else other than you and Brad, I think I would have done the same thing."

I've never seen Trevor this sensitive and honest before; it's quite unnerving, to be quite frank. Having a conversation like this, you'd think that Trevor was a normal, down-to-earth kinda guy and while I gotta admit, he does have his moments, they don't last long. At all.

I wish they did, but that just ain't the Trevor Philips way. Or the Michael Townley way either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again. so this was fun to write; Trevor's pov is more InTeReStInG to write in but i find Michael's pov more relatable???
> 
> anyways i really like this chapter and i cannot wait to start writing the next one !!!!!! :D


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After I get done with a rather heated phone conversation with Franklin, I feel ready to either take another hit of meth, punch somebody's fucking lights out or take a God damn meditation class. Homie has only known me for what feels like 5 fucking minutes and this is how he repays me.  
Michael tries to reassure me that I'm overreacting; that seeing how calm Frank was, he probably wasn't that angry so why should I be? Fuck the both of them.  
Franklin has developed a liking for the female member of the Lost who I had kidnapped out of petty and accused me of having a deep and dangerous hatred for women which meant I got a little angry.

"What kind of fucking animal do you take me for, Frank? I don't hate women; I love 'em! It's those chap-wearing, tooth-missing, bike-riding assholes that I can't stand."

Franklin just looks at me disapprovingly, "So? Go take it out on those assholes then. The girl's done nothing to you, dog."  
The girl looks at F with the most longing look in her eyes. He's got a point but at the same time has no clue what's going on.  
"I am taking it out on those assholes, Franklin. It's all a game, the girl's just a pawn in this little game, and it's all thanks to..." My voice wavers as my outstretched arms and hands gesture to the frightened red-haired woman tied to one of my chairs that looks like it's about to collapse any second now. I've only just come to realise that I have no idea what her name is.  
Franklin raises his eyes at me in annoyance.  
F gives an exasperated sigh, "Her name's Roxanne, dog. She was talking to me the other day, she's fucking terrified of you, man."  
Roxanne coughs and spits blood on the floor next to her feet; she doesn't say anything but looks longingly at Franklin.  
"She has a right to be," I reply, swaggering over to Franklin, making him stagger backwards in fear. "Your new friend is a lot smarter than her crew down in Stab City then, ain't she?"  
"I don't know what to say to that, man. Fuck, I don't know what you got against the bikers either but if they've really pissed you off so bad, go do your thing, but leave her out of it," Franklin is almost begging me, like this girl means something to him.

Franklin kneels beside Roxanne; she's whispering something into his ear but I'm too angry and frustrated to give a shit. F knows to leave her where she is or else. He knows who I am, what I'm capable of and what I'll do if he fucks things up. I grab a shitty red plastic cup, start pouring gasoline into it and storm onto the laboratory rooftop.  
Using the meth already cooked up isn't an option. I know for a fact Chef cooked a lot of that shit up this morning and none of it is for personal use and for business only. Ironically, most of it goes to the bikers that I'm punishing. I sniff long and hard into the cup full of gasoline, longing for a high, hoping to just pass out even for a half an hour. For an escape. If anything, just to get away from the moaning, Lost MC sympathiser moping about downstairs.

I inhale. In and out, in and out, in and out.  
And so on, and on, and on, and on.

My body feels itself gets warmer, my eyes are fixated on something in the distance but nothing of any importance; maybe an animal that just got gunned down by just another redneck. I can also feel the blood pumping around my body getting faster and faster, though I can actually feel it as it gets more intense. I can hear the blood pump so loudly it's as if its coming out my ears. My hands remove my phone from my pocket, fingers trembling, typing, scrambling to create a text message that might not even make any sense. Not that anyone would have the guts to point that out. Pussies.

New message to: Franklin Clinton:  
Who have u been hanging round so much 2 turn u into such a dick?

I sound pathetic. I don't care. Another gunshot rings out in the distance.

New message to: Cletus  
If I hear another fucking shot out of ur ass today, I'm gonna shove that rifle so far up ur ass ur gonna be brushing ur teeth with it :)

I smile to myself, it's what that dumb fuck deserves anyway. More scrolling, more inhaling, more gasoline, more self hatred, more loneliness.

New message to: Michael De Santa  
Where are you? I need u.

I press send; then start pacing back and forth from one side of the rooftop to another, the cup of gasoline still in my grasp. I carry on pacing until dark. The sky truly is beautiful here, hardly any clouds or pollution up there. Probably because some of these fuckers who live here look like they still haven't discovered electricity yet. Oh well, their ignorance is the sky's gain. Long live, Sandy Shores.

Michael doesn't even call up to let me know that he's coming. I can hear the sound of his expensive black loafers creep up behind me; one hand in his pocket and the other on my shoulder. I'm in a bad way and I think he knows this. If I weren't so high, I probably would've cried by now. M stares at me, his eyes looking grey but bright, even brighter in the moonlight, dare I say they look quite pretty-looking.  
I haven't even spoken since he got up here which I feel even worse about but he doesn't seem to mind. He runs downstairs, past the lab, and down to the liquor store. He returns with a couple bottles of beer and hard liquor and decide to get drunk on the rooftop. Still hardly saying anything substantial, and with Michael running out of one-way conversations for him to have with himself and for me to simply nod at, I throw myself at him.  
My arms lunge themselves around his neck and I nuzzle my face into his chest.  
"I'm sorry, man," I mumble.  
"Don't be, T," Michael smiles sweetly. "It's actually nice to see you, I don't know, to see your sensitive side come out."  
I give him a cold look but he just throws his head back and gives a large cackle.  
"I'm sorry, I do love you, Mikey. I know that all I seem to do is yell at you or throw flammables at your house but I really do love you, you know?" I'm slurring my words; the inhalation from the gas and the intoxication from the booze working its sweet magic.  
"I like you too, T," Michael ruffles my hair with his fingers and my brain starts to feel a warm, fuzzy feeling that isn't caused by the drink or the drugs.  
I sit up properly, lean forward and kiss Michael gently on the lips, only for a second and the retreat back. I sit cross-legged and stare into my lap, half-embarrassed but still anticipate his next move.  
Michael's neck moves from side to side and to my surprise he leans towards me this time. He cocks his neck to the side and his lips meet mine. It's a soft and gentle kiss, and I love it. Innocent; makes you feel a generation younger, that kind of kiss. Suddenly I wasn't Trevor, hiking out in the desert and I wasn't the owner of a methamphetamine and weapons trader business. I was little Trevor, living on the South Canadian border, moving back and forth with notorious bank robber and getaway driver Michael Townley pulling scores together on a much smaller scale. I swear I can almost feel a snowflake touch my skin even on the hot sand. Michael eventually pulls away but his face is just inches away from mine; he cups my face with his soft, moisturised hands.

"We're gonna be alright, you're gonna be ok, T."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have any excuses for why i can't update frequently. i hate myself.
> 
> hope you enjoy this chapter :)


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I always wake up before Trevor. He's out cold for hours anyway, possibly due to the drug abuse and I don't really sleep that much, even back home. Trevor and I walked back from the lab back to the trailer; we took fucking ages. Trevor had inhaled that much gasoline and smoked that much meth that he was struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He was leaning on me the whole time and I wasn't exactly stone cold sober myself. The man's laboratory sits right above a liquor store and Trevor and I were on that rooftop, drinking and smoking and talking about everything and nothing for what seemed like forever.

I wish that night could have lasted forever.

Last night, when we eventually reached the trailer and Trevor crashed out on his bed, he beckoned me to join him. Since I became a dirty stop out and started shacking up with him, I've been sleeping on his old, dirty couch so sleeping on a bed was a nice change; even if it did mean sharing a bed with Trevor.

Trevor is so nice to look at when he's not conscious, which is why I've considered knocking him out just to admire him (and just for some peace and quiet now and again). I twist a lock of his brown hair round my pinky finger. It feels strangely soft for someone whose hygiene standards are as bad as his. He also looks softer when he's asleep as well; not as angry, not as stressed. He looks relatively normal. Well, as normal as Trevor Philips can possibly get.

I stumble out of bed and make my way over to the kitchen counter. I start making myself some coffee and scroll through my phone for something to do. I yearn for a message, a call - missed or otherwise, a voicemail from Amanda and the kids. But, no, not a single thing. Not a single fucking thing. My eyes are glued to a particular message that I've already seen before.

Message from: Trevor Philips  
Where are you? I need u.

I smile pathetically down at my phone and begin typing.

New message to: Trevor Philips  
I'm right here for you.

I send it before I change my mind and set my phone down on the counter. Sipping my coffee, I sit myself down on the edge of the bed where Trevor lies; he doesn't really snore. His mouth is slightly open and he makes a soft, purring noise through his chapped lips. It sounds oddly relaxing and he looks so much younger and less angrier when he's not awake. In which case, using that logic, he must look fucking beautiful when he eventually kicks the bucket.

Back when Trevor and I were younger and were pulling scores on a smaller scale back in North Yankton, and we were living out of motel rooms and on Lester's couch when he allowed us to; Trevor always looked so sweet and innocent lying in his own unconsciousness. Less sad looking as well.

Another sip of coffee, another twirl of his hair around my finger; Trevor begins to stir a little bit which means he must be waking up soon. I stay sat beside him, perfectly content where I am, smiling down at him.

Trevor opens his eyes just barely, a little squint, before he rubs his eyes with his dry, cut and bloody hands.

"Morning, T," I whisper in his ear before giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek. I felt a bit nervous about getting this intimate with him now, I mean, there was last night, but neither of us were sober.

He doesn't seem to mind though.

Trevor nuzzles his face into my neck, his stubble tickling me but it feels nice being this close to someone. I haven't been this intimate with anyone, not even Amanda, in a long time.

"Morning, Mikey," His morning, tired-sounding voice is quite attractively adorable. Just for a moment, everything feels different. Like everyone has completely disappeared and nothing else really matters. Trevor and I are in our own little world for a few minutes. Neither of us say anything, I stroke his hair and my fingers dance around his messy hair and his hands carefully trace and caress my face. I could stay in that world, our private world forever but it's ruined by a nervous, frightened knock at the door.

Ron barges into Trevor's trailer; I freeze and T gives him a murderous looking glare.

"Sorry to disturb your - um - moment, boss, but you gotta get to the lab, quick. That girl you've been keeping there is acting out pretty bad," Ron panics. He turns to look at me, "Has Franklin said anything to you? I know he's been sweet on her."

I groan, "I'm gonna be acting out pretty bad soon too, and no, he hasn't told me nothin'."

"Double negative, Mikey!" Trevor leaps out of bed. He pulls a dirty, white, blood stained t-shirt over his head and makes his way over to his truck. I follow him like an obedient puppy. Ron jumps in the back.

Ron is extra jittery and nervous today; I think nothing of it and put it down to excessive caffeine use. I guess that has to be a little bit healthier than what Trevor is using but still. Trevor seems strangely calm and subdued, even when we pull up in front of the lab and Franklin is leaning on his motorbike, T isn't as angry as he usually is and I'm terrified. There's a deep pit sitting at the bottom of my stomach and it's making me feel sick. Trevor? Right now, I don't recognise him.

Wade comes stumbling out of the lab with blood streaming out of his nose, into his mouth and his hands bloody from coaxing his damaged face; Trevor still doesn't bat an eyelid.

"She's gone nuts, Trevor! She's gone mad, she's trashed your place up, Trev," Wade panics.

"That's not very far fetched is it, now? It was a shithole anyway, innit," Trevor rolls his eyes and digs into the pockets of his dirty sweat pants. He finds an old rag, chucks it at Wade and grumbles at him  
to clean his face up.

"Yes sir!" Wade nuzzles his face into a filthy rag and follows Trevor who marches into the lab.

Ron, Franklin and I follow them. Franklin still hasn't said a word yet. He just shrugs his shoulders and looks none the wiser whenever I look over to him for answers.

He sighs, "Roxanne probably ain't meaning anyone no harm. Lass is probably jus' scared that's all."

Well, at least Biker Girl has a name now.

Blood curdling screams can be heard from her mouth, in Sandy Shores, all throughout Los Santos most likely.  
Jesus, I bet Amanda and the kids can hear what's happening from all the way back home.

Trevor looks confused, "What the fuck are you screaming for, eh? I haven't even started yet," Trevor nears his head close to Roxanne's tear stained face. "Do I look angry to you?"

To be fair, he doesn't. He looks as cool as methamphetamine-addicted cucumber.

"Go easy on her, man," Franklin tries to intervene. He probably shouldn't have.

"Shut," Trevor turns to point a deranged finger at Franklin, "The fuck up."

Franklin puts his hands up in faux-surrender and Trevor mockingly thanks him.

He turns back to Roxanne who is shaking like a leaf (I'm not sure whether this due to fear or drug withdrawal, but whatever).

"Look, kiddo, I know our Frank is a good looking boy and you want some kind of fuckin' fairytale where you get saved by some victorious dark knight," Trevor starts.

"Not racist!" Wade interrupts. Dagger looks from T.

"But this is ain't Disney World. Now, the next time you put a foot out of line, the next and only time you'll be leaving this place will be in a fucking wooden box, okay?" Trevor smirks and gently but firmly slaps her on both of her cheeks.

He struts up to Franklin, who stands tall and confident but is sweating rapidly out of nervousness.

"Now fuck off," Trevor orders. Wade and Ron both scarper out of there quick as a flash. Franklin considers and gives Trevor and Roxanne a meaningful glance each before tugging his motorcycle helmet over his head and getting out of there without another word.

So that just leaves me and him. Again. I think a nerve must have been touched because he seems very uneasy for a moment.

"You got something you wanna say, Mikey?"

I shrug and frown. I waltz over to his fridge and collect two cold beer bottles and hold both of them up, "Fancy a drink?"

Trevor's face softens as he stares at the two bottles and then directly into my eyes.

"I'd love one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert really poor excuse for another late ass chapter]
> 
> seriously, this is getting ridiculous now.
> 
> [bad mental health, blah blah fucking blah]
> 
> this was really fun to write though, tbh
> 
>  
> 
> :)


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